


Speak

by pan_ismyhomeboy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Language Kink, M/M, The answer to Will's problems is more alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pan_ismyhomeboy/pseuds/pan_ismyhomeboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The words flow from his mouth effortlessly, liquid and cool, precise. Hannibal says them with love, emotion lighting up his face as he recites the -- the poem, the play, the prayer? His lips and tongue craft each syllable to perfection, something Will can hear even if the most he knows about French is that he can't understand it. Hannibal speaks not softly, not exactly, but with strong dignity and assurance that doesn't need a loud voice to carry straight to Will's heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak

**Author's Note:**

> Originally prompted from the DW kinkmeme. Would you believe I haven't seen a single episode of Hannibal, yet the fandom has consumed my life over the past week? Funny how that works out.

Some nights Will doesn't need a therapist, he needs a friend, and he doesn't need to work through his problems, he needs to forget them at the bottom of a shot or two or six of whiskey. Some nights he shows up late at the good doctor's house, bleary eyed and shaken to his core, without having to say a single word. Ushered inside, encouraged in the direction of a chair with a push from Dr. Lecter's firm yet gentle hands, Will finds himself sitting down with a glass of something expensive and alcoholic in his hand. He always expects his companion to comment about his growing inclination to turn toward drink in times like this, but Will has never, ever had to explain himself.

Hannibal understands. He _always_ understands.

Will had worried the first time his native accent bloomed under the influence of Hannibal's liquor cabinet, words flowing from him like a soft, warmed caramel with a hint of smoke. He'd been halfway through an eloquent and rambling speech about something or other when he realized the other man's silence stretched out longer than usual. Will had cut himself off mid-syllable, cheeks burning with more than alcohol this time, and fumbled for an apology.

"Never apologize for what you are," Hannibal had said, standing up to refill Will's glass. Their knuckles had brushed and Will had not pulled away.

So that's why Will finds himself accepting offers of liquid courage and breaking down the careful mental barriers standing guard against his childhood accent, variously called charming, quaint, rustic, ignorant, and classless. The latter, at least, he never has to worry about in Hannibal's presence, though gods only knew the other man outclassed him when it comes to anything and everything. Even if Will feels embarrassed breaking into soft bits of Cajun during their nightly visits, Hannibal has never, ever made him feel inferior for it. It means more to Will than he'll ever say. But again -- Hannibal understands.

"What about you?" Will asks one night, tilting his head and smiling easily. His eyes don't meet his companion's, but even well on his way past tipsy, even with Hannibal, eye contact can be more stimulation than he can take. Hannibal smiles and asks him what he means. Will knocks back the rest of his shot, swallows the soothing burn, and says, "You've heard me, heard me a lot. I think I should get t'hear you."

"Are we trading intimacies now?"

Will may be looking down at his hands, but his smile is only for Hannibal. "I'll call you cher if you do."

Hannibal puts his glass down and regards Will for a moment. "Do you know French?"

Will shakes his head. "Took Spanish in school."

"More's the pity." Hannibal shifts and takes a breath and begins to speak.

The words flow from his mouth effortlessly, liquid and cool, precise. Hannibal says them with love, emotion lighting up his face as he recites the -- the poem, the play, the prayer? His lips and tongue craft each syllable to perfection, something Will can hear even if the most he knows about French is that he can't understand it. Hannibal speaks not softly, not exactly, but with strong dignity and assurance that doesn't _need_ a loud voice to carry straight to Will's heart.

Will closes his eyes and finds himself gripping the empty shot glass. He can hear echoes of this language in his own speech, even as opposite as they are, all bayous and Parisian lights.

"Oh," Will says quietly when Hannibal finishes. "That's..."

"Charles Baudelaire. A selection from _Les Fleurs du mal_. I'll translate it for you one day."

Will blinks and looks at the glass in his hand to Hannibal's feet to the loosened tie around his neck. "You recited poetry for me?"

Hannibal picks up his drink and offers a small toast, quietly teasing and genuine at the same time. "You promised to call me cher. It seemed apropos."

Will watches the rim of the glass angle towards Hannibal's mouth, amber liquid drawn inevitably between those lips. Will finds himself licking his own, wanting but unable to look higher. Hannibal's watching him now with understanding -- more than that, with _acceptance_ , and Will isn't sure what's the alcohol anymore and what isn't, and he finds that he really doesn't care.

"S'French, not... not _you_. I mean, it's pretty and all. You gotta nice tongue." Voice, he meant to say voice, but you can't watch a voice caress drops of expensive brandy off somebody's lips. "But not you, not like me."

Hannibal to his credit is well versed in drunken Will Graham speak and inclines his head in agreement. "I keep that on reserve, thank you."

"I share wit' you," Will says stubbornly, watching Hannibal's lips as he speaks. He wonders about lips and tongues when cradling vowels or tossing out consonants, wonders if Hannibal ever got used to the strange way Standard American English sounded, or if he ever felt homesick when his mouth formed sounds and words alien to his mother tongue.

Hannibal hesitates, a dramatic event in and of itself. "It is nothing special," he says with a tone that anyone else would interpret as modesty, but Will isn't anyone else and something in his alcohol-fueled mind clicks. 

He stands, swaying slightly, and makes his way to Hannibal's spot on the couch. The other man says nothing, nor does he look surprised when Will reaches out to touch his cheek, the curve of his ear. Will wants to say, of course it's special, of course _he's_ special, wants to hold him in honeyed smoke and sonnets and something that's almost entirely, but not exactly, not quite, like love. Instead, all Will Graham says is this:

"Don't ever apologize for what you are, cher."


End file.
